Yes!!! I alone, of rediff's 200-plus roster of employees, can now claim to be completely free of sin.

In fact, to make doubly sure -- after all, some sins, such as constantly nagging the BCCI, take quite a bit of purification -- I got myself purified twice. And this being the age of 'buy one, take one free' type package deals, purification comes with some enlightenment thrown in for free. This is how it went:

January 17: Time: 6 am.

It is chill, blustery. No dew, no mist -- but a breeze laden with a thousand pincushions of cold blows steadily, defying the shirt, jeans and jacket you put up as protection against the elements. Cold, they say, is relative. Thus, while waiting on the main road outside my hotel on Civil Lines, Allahabad, the cold seems intense.

Ten minutes later, an autorickshaw (that, at least, would be the loose description of a vehicle that runs on three wheels, but carries around 15 passengers) comes along, and stops to pick me up (Charge: Rs 15). Within, there is warmth, transmitted by co-passengers -- albeit a warmth that comes with its accompanying bodily smells.

A 15 minute ride brings me to the entrance to Kumbh Nagri, beyond which autorickshwas are not allowed to ply. From there to the Sangam Ghat, you have to walk. It is about a kilometre-and-a-half as the crow flies. For non-crows, who need to take a winding road that meanders in and out of various camps, the walk in the intensifying chill takes over half an hour. (No charge.)

At the Sangam Ghat, you are confronted by a seething mass of humanity, packed 12 deep when I got there. The Ganga and the Yamuna are broad enough for all of Allahabad to bathe at one time, and still leave enough room left over for the rest of Uttar Pradesh -- but the point is to bathe in that one spot, where the dark green waters of the Yamuna meet the lighter-hued waters of the Ganga and are joined, so legend says, by the waters of the subterranean Saraswati (sorry, can't tell you what colour those waters are, as I didn't see them).

So you get to the Sangam Ghat, and you wait, patiently. There are lots of things you could be doing, while you wait: meditate on Hinduism, recall the stories you were told the night before, of the Kumbh and the Ganges and Siva and Vishnu and assorted other deities, eavesdrop on conversations happening around you... anything to take your mind off the fact that the cold has now gone past the outer fortress of your clothes, breached your skin, and taken up permanent residence in your bones.

(Tip for those of you who are more than ordinarily susceptible to chill: Try keeping an eye on your wristwatch and counting how many times your teeth can chatter in a minute -- concentrating on the count takes your mind off how cold you feel.)

Finally, by a process of attrition (not to mention judicious use of arms, elbows and the soles of your shoes), you reach the front ranks of the assembled pilgrims. And confront a barricade made of casuarina poles, that serves to create a narrow walkway extending from the river banks into the water. A posse of cops blocks you at this point, until those who have gone before are all through with their ablutions. And then, you are allowed -- in batches of 20 or so at a time -- through the barricaded walkway. Which in turn leads to a row of boats placed sideways to form an impromptu ramp.

You walk along this improvised bridge, for about 100 metres.... and come to a series of little platforms erected on stilts set into the river bed. You hop on to one of these platforms and, oblivious to the crowds around you and the many thousands lining the riverbank, you do a complicated striptease that involves wrapping a towel around you, then peeling off your clothes and putting them on a pile beside you. And then you slip into the water, which at that point is a little less than waist deep -- and promptly lose your breath, as the lower part of your body is completely frozen. Or so it feels.

Before you can recover, you are exhorted by those waiting behind you to get a move on. So you take a breath, bend at the knees, and then duck your head into the water three times, facing the rising sun. As you rise after the third immersion, you are confronted by a man holding out a glass of watery milk.

How thoughtful, you think, and take the glass and raise it to your lips. At which point he says, "Nahin nahin sahib, yeh doodh aap Ganga-maa ko pila deejiye." So you pour the milk (please note that the word 'milk' is used, here, in a very loose sense) into the river. Along comes another gent, holding out a vaati of marigold flowers -- which you are exhorted to throw into the water. Done. As I clamber back out of the water, there is a tap on my shoulder. "Saab, dakshina tho de dijiye." The milk and the marigold flowers cost me Rs 21.

You then perform another ritual, this time a temporal one -- using a soaking wet towel to wipe yourself dry. It doesn't happen, of course -- the towel (bought on the banks of the Ghat, for Rs 18) transfers more water to my body than vice versa. Anyways. You then pull on your clothes, and wend your way back along the bridge of boats to the shore.

You have officially bathed in the Triveni Sangam -- and as the myths and legends surrounding Prayag have it, that 'bath', which took all of a minute to complete, has absolved you of all sins ever committed during your lifetime to date.

Total cost -- Rs 54 (and you get to keep the towel though you can, if you like, give it away as alms to the 'sadhus' lining the banks).

You then walk back the way you came, to the entrance to Kumbh Nagari, from where you get a seat in one of those buses masquerading as autorickshaws. Rs 15 gets you back to a point in the vicinity of your hotel.

You then realise you have retained nothing of the experience. Could I, at the point of immersion, make out the two distinct streams of the Ganga and the Yamuna? I don't know. Did I have time to meditate, to pray? No. Did I feel cleansed, purified? No, there was no time for all that -- you need time to absorb, to assimilate, to feel. Here, all I got was a little under a minute -- just time enough to feel cold.

January 18. Time, 8 am:

The pre-arranged taxi waits outside the hotel entrance, to pick me up (Cost: Rs 500). I am driven to Saraswati Ghat, in about ten minutes (for the uninitiated, the Sangam Ghat is on the left side of Emperor Akbar's famed fort, fronting the Yamuna, while Saraswati Ghat is on the right side of the Fort, and about a kilometre away from the Sangam).

At the boat jetty at Saraswati Ghat (this Ghat, I am duly informed, was erected by Amitabh Bachchan for the benefit of pilgrims), I hire a boat. (Cost: Rs 1,100). With the boat, comes a boatman, Ganga Prasad (in Allahabad, any stone you throw to any distance is almost guaranteed to hit a Ganga Prasad or a Yamuna Prasad) and a guide, Ghanshyam.

The boat proceeds, in leisurely fashion, towards the Sangam. And as Ganga Prasad rows, Ghanshyam treats me to a running commentary. Are we on the Ganga, I ask. 'Saab, Gangaji boliye, yeh hum sab ke mata hain.' It turns out that I am not on Gangaji, but on Yamunaji.

The boat meanders over, to a few feet short of the bank, so that I can at close quarters take in the grandeur of Akbar's fort. The river, I am told, resisted all attempts by the builders to erect a wall. Pandits were called in, by Akbar himself. And after much cogitation and consulting of the stars, it was decreed that a Brahmin had to be sacrificed in order to propitiate the river. A young Brahmin boy was duly sacrificed, then buried at the spot where the wall was intended -- and lo, the wall was built in record time, and stands to this day.

A little recessed alcove with a red cloth draped over it is then pointed out to me. Above that alcove, which is set high on the fort wall, is a huge tree. I cannot see the trunk, since it is within the fort and the fort in turn is under the custody of the Army, but I can see a huge spread of branches.

That tree, I am duly informed by Ghanshyam, is the Akshay Vat -- the manifestation of Shiva himself, who in Prayag chose the form of a tree to manifest himself to his devotees (Vishnu, I am also informed, was more generous -- thus, there are ten manifestations of Vishnu along the banks of the two rivers, in one holding up the lotus, in another holding the mace, in a third holding the Chakra, and so on...).

The boat then wends its way back into the middle of the river, then meanders through a gauntlet of other boats plying every which way, till we get to the boat-bridge that I saw, and traversed, the previous day, from Sangam Ghat. At this point, another boat heads towards us, seemingly on collision course. As events develop, 'collusion', not 'collision', is the operative word -- the two boatmen knew exactly what they were doing.

Thus, at the last minute, the two boats turn so they are side by side. I find, facing me, a boat with a little pandal in the centre and within it, three flower-bedecked idol. I recognise one as Shiva. I don't know who the other two deities represent.

The Panda sitting next to the idols, having duly grabbed the gunwale of the boat I am in and made it fast to his, then holds out a coconut and a few marigold flowers. Which I accept in my cupped hands. He then, in the manner of the President swearing in a prime minister, starts reciting something which I am asked to echo. The recitation is laden with many references to Ganga and Yamuna. Midway through, I am asked if my parents are alive. My late father's name is worked into the mantra. Then my own name. And then I am told to throw the coconut and the flowers into the water.

I oblige.

"Karm tho kar chuke hain, aap ke pitashri Vaikunth mein kush hain, ab aap ko Gangasnaan ka pura phal milna hai tho ab daan karni padegi," I am told.

What does that involve, I ask. There are, I am informed, 21 temples on the banks of the two rivers (there are many more actually, but I understand that only the 21 official temples have any right to the proceeds). The practise is to give a certain quantity, which will be utilised for the purchase of laddoos, made, of course, in pure desi ghee, to be fed to the pilgrims. "They will enjoy the prasad and bless you for providing it," I am informed.

How much, I ask. Amitabh Bachchan offered 20 quintals of laddoos, I am told, while Dhirubhai Ambani offered 50 quintals. I am neither a film star, nor a polyster pasha, I point out, asking the Panda to scale down his expectations. At which point, he suggests, as the barest minimum permissible, Rs 2,000 -- which amount, I am informed, will pay for 2.5 kgs of laddoos per temple.

I count out the notes, from my wallet. I had kept a limited amount in my wallet, depositing the rest of the cash in a tote bag I was carrying. As I counted out the notes, I was interrupted by the anxiety-laden voice of the watching Ganga Prasad: "Boat ke kiraye ke liye paise tho hain, na?" he demands. Reassured on this point, he subsides, and I finish the transaction.

I am then given some Ganga jal to drink -- out of a brass lota, as opposed to direct from the river beneath me. Some more mantras are chanted. And then I am informed that the gods are pleased with me, and that for the next seven generations, I and all those dear to me will be free of all harm.

The boats get ready to go their separate ways -- at which point, the Panda reminds me that I haven't paid for the coconut and the flowers. How much? "Rs 50." I pay up, thinking within myself that for that amount, I could buy a coconut tree, or at least, in these days of inflation, a sturdy sapling, in my native Kerala.

"Aap kush hai na?" the Panda asks me as we part. "Kush nahin tho batha dena -- Gangamata aap se kuch cheenke nahin leni chahthi hai."

Yeah, right -- trouble is, the tone he says it in dares you to say you are not kush and want your money back.

We part. My boat is then rowed to the extreme end of the boat-bridge. Pray note -- the ordinary pilgrim (such as me, the day before) gets to go less than halfway along this bridge -- the longer half, stretching almost halfway into the river, is reserved for the privileged who come by boat.

Once tied up to the impromptu bridge, I am told that I can -- leisurely, in my own time -- strip down and, wearing a towel provided by my friendly boatman, take my ritual dip.

I strip, step onto the platform, from thence into water that rises a little over my waist, and dip. Thrice, facing the sun. Taking my own sweet time over it, staying down long enough to let the waters wash over me thoroughly each time. There is no one standing nearby to exhort me to hurry.

I surface, and confront the ubiquitous milkman, and marigold-wallah. The rituals completed, I am asked for baksheesh. How much? 51 rupees, I am told. Watered-down milk, and a handful of marigolds, appear overnight to have tripled in value. I pay.

We begin the return journey. And Ganga Prasad takes over as storyteller. 'I am a Kewat,' he informs me. The significance is lost on me. He elaborates, with the tale of how Bhagwan Sri Ramchandraji came to the banks of the Ganga and was desirous to cross. Of how he spotted a Kewat sitting in his boat and asked to be ferried across. Of how the Kewat gladly obliged. Of how Ram extended his hand over the Kewat's head in blessing. Of how Ram then sought to pay the Kewat for his trouble. Of how the Kewat refused -- after all, having got Sri Ram's blessing, what more could he ask for? Of how Sri Ram, pleased (born of a perverse sense of humour, a thought surfaces in my head at this point -- maybe, I think, Sri Ram was not on an expense account, which explains his happiness at having saved on the fare?) then blessed the Kewat with the words: "Because you have been good to me, my bhakts will be good to you, everyone who uses your boat will pay you handsomely for the privilege."

Finally, the point of his discourse dawns on me. But, I ask, isn't that what I did at the boat house? Pay you?

That is for the committee, sahib, he tells me. Hamein kuch nahin milta hai.

The discourse continues. I am shown the towering fort. "Akbar badshah ne ise banaye the. There is, inside it, treasures you cannot dream of, all collected by him. But where is he today?" Ganga Prasad demands. "He is gone, sir, leaving it all behind. Paise se kya hota hai, dhan kis kaam ka?"

The boat, by now, is drifting into the middle of the broadest part of the Yamuna, at that point. I look at the shore, receeding in the distance, and wonder why I am going in the opposite direction. A few minutes later, I get my answer. The boat stops. Ganga Prasad relinquishes the oars to Ghanshyam. He then takes a little plank of wood, dips it in the waters, washing it. He then places it before me, and on it, ceremoniously, he places a marigold flower.

I am then asked to dip my hand in the river, and take a handful of water. I do. Ganga Prasad starts chanting a rapidfire selection of mantras -- a kind of religious medley in course of which I spot some words of the Gayatri, some bits of the Lingaashtaka, and some other lines I couldn't place offhand. Now drink the water, he tells me. I do so.

We have been given the right to perform this puja by Sri Ram himself, Ganga Prasad informs me, adding in the same breath: "Ab hamare dakshina isme rakho, saab," he says, pointing to the wet plank of wood.

How much? 500 for me, and 250 for Ganshyam. "People give us much more," he tells me, sneering a bit at my temerity in even asking. "There was a gora saab who came in my boat yesterday, he took out 15,000 rupees and gave it to me."

I am tempted to point out, in passing, that Sri Ram didn't lay down any strictures about his bhakts paying ill-informed 'guides' capable only of pointing to a fort and saying, look, there is a fort. But it has already occurred to me that it is precisely to deal with such intransigence on the passenger's part that the boat has been rowed into the middle of the river, and well away from the people on the banks.

I count out the notes and place them ceremoniously on the plank. As ceremoniously, Ganga Prasad picks it up and bestows it within his shirt pocket.

The boat then begins to hasten towards Saraswati Ghat. En route, Ganga Prasad asks me about my mother. Where is she? Why is she not with you? "Aap hamare bade behen ko zaroor lekar aayiyega, saab," he tells me. "I am sitting here, in the middle of the Ganga, and asking you this as my personal request. Meanwhile, as you leave, do give me some alms in your mother's name -- she will be very happy."

I fight back a chuckle, struggling to remain straight-faced. I am sorely tempted to remind him that we are back on the Yamuna -- undercutting his grandiose little speech about sitting on the Ganga and making his request. Instead, straight-faced, I ask: How much?

Rs 201, he tells me. Apparently that sum will make my mother happy -- how, is left unexplained. I do the needful again.

We finally reach the shore. I am helped off the boat, with a little speech about how I have made them happy (bloody hell, they better be, having earned more in a day than I do) and how they will bless me always and remember me in their prayers and tell others who come of the Saab who came from Bombay.

I go looking for my cab driver. He spots me, comes rushing up. "Sab teekh tha, sahib?" he inquires. Yes of course, I tell him, let's go.

Ek minute saab, main ek paan lekar aatha hoon.

Okay, I say, and settle down in the car. It then occurs to me that a cigarette might come in handy, so I step out again and walk towards the paanwallah, at a distance. And there, I see my cab driver, in close conversation with Ganga Prasad and Ghanshyam. I hang back, watching. There is much gesticulation, though I cannot hear what is said. Finally, Ganga Prasad puts his hand inside his shirt pocket, brings out some notes, and passes it on to my cabbie.

Finder's fees, I guess.

My purification is complete. This time, salvation (for seven generations, mind, not the measly one generation's worth I got the previous day) has cost me Rs 4,612.

I can't complain -- the mantras were detailed, I was given all the time I wanted for my ritual dip, and been regaled with stories coming and going, what more could I want?

So do I feel absolved? Clean? Pure?

No. Merely, immeasurably saddened that, under the existing scheme of things, obtaining salvation is a process remarkably akin to obtaining a birth certificate, or any other kind of certificate, from a government office -- money counts, and you count out a lot of money before you can get your job done.

Design and illustration: Dominic Xavier

The Rediff Specials